


Cowman and the Dragonfly

by FrostysaurusRekt



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, reconnection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 14:06:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7848034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostysaurusRekt/pseuds/FrostysaurusRekt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Hanzo falls, he falls hard and fast.</p><p>A month. That’s how long it takes for him to find himself completely lost in daydreams of too much cologne and western drawl that slides sinuously around his heart and cinches tight. It takes a month for Hanzo to open like sunflower, basking in the warmth of a stranger-not-stranger who is not here for his status or his money, but who is here because he thinks Hanzo is beautiful and because he chases after Hanzo’s smile and laughter like a faithful dog playing fetch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cowman and the Dragonfly

**Author's Note:**

> A gift for infinite-atmosphere.tumblr.com, inspired by their comic [[here](http://infinite-atmosphere.tumblr.com/post/149015738376/disjointed-comic-featuring-unfulfilled-past)]

When Hanzo falls, he falls hard and fast.

A month. That’s how long it takes for him to find himself completely lost in daydreams of too much cologne and western drawl that slides sinuously around his heart and cinches tight. It takes a month for Hanzo to open like sunflower, basking in the warmth of a stranger-not-stranger who is not here for his status or his money, but who is here because he thinks Hanzo is beautiful and because he chases after Hanzo’s smile and laughter like a faithful dog playing fetch.

It starts during the local Cherry Blossom festival. The city of Hanamura buzzes with activity- vendors, games, and people who are just happy to bask under the synthetic pink petals. It matters little to their city that the trees will never lose their color, they celebrate still and enjoy a bereft moment of joy.

Joy, Hanzo thinks as he stalks angrily behind his brother, is subjective. Genji is far more animated than the city as a whole, and it’s only his vibrant green hair that helps Hanzo keep track of him. Until his grave, Hanzo will insist that he came out to the festival to keep his little brother from getting into trouble rather than admit he wanted to revel in the festivities.

He is waiting at the outskirts of a game booth that Genji has overtaken with his personality when the cowboy approaches. Had Hanzo known then, the heartache and loneliness the stranger would give him for years, he wouldn’t have even acknowledged the low whistle and the drag of eyes up his body.

Hanzo is no spring lamb, he is aware of his sharp looks- it runs in the family, but where Genji prefers to use his appearance as a weapon, Hanzo prefers the sword.

“Did it hurt?”

The deep voice is clearly not from around here, Japanese words thickly accented. So much so, that for a moment Hanzo wondered if the stranger hadn’t misspoken a translation. He finally deigns a glance at the man, dark brown eyes roaming from head to toe- cowboy hat, boots with stars of metal, _chaps_. A foreigner who sticks out like a sore thumb.

“Excuse me?” Hanzo asks with a soft curl of his lip, pride bubbling up. Who is this man to speak to him like such, to lean in too close? Does he not know that a dragon is not like a rattlesnake?  
There is no warning before he strikes.

The man clears his throat and leans in closer still. “I said, did it hurt?”

Wary, Hanzo squints at him. “Did _what_ hurt?” He spits, words sharp daggers.

“Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?”

Hanzo is at a loss for words, mouth opening and closing as he tries to produce some sort of sound. Does this man not know who he is?

“Cause baby, you’re an angel if I ever saw one.”

It occurs to Hanzo, no, this man does not know who he is. He’s a foreigner.

A hand is suddenly jutted out in front of his face and if looks could kill, Hanzo’s menacing gaze would have melted the offending limb right off. “The name’s Jesse.” The stranger greets, tipping his cowboy hat with his other hand- a gentlemanly gesture.

The silence from Hanzo’s end is enough to make the man flounder, look sheepish and embarrassed. “Aren’t ya gonna…” He pauses, retracting his hand and rolling it, as if Hanzo will suddenly understand the rest of his sentence from the motion alone. “Tell me yer name?”

Hanzo’s eyes narrow and he tilts his chin up, a proud man. “I won’t.”

The stranger’s mouth hangs open, astonished to be refused and he goes to retort when someone shouts behind him. _McCree_. Such an American name.

Jesse looks over his shoulder and then back at Hanzo, hope in his eyes that he will receive a name.

He merely smiles wider, triumphant, and makes a shooing motion with one hand. A tad childish, sure, but the message is clear- no name for him.

Genji approaches as Hanzo watches the stranger’s retreating, hunched over and sulking, back. “What was that?” He asks before jamming some confection in his mouth.

“Forgotten by tomorrow morning.”

-

Or so he had hoped.

It’s only two weeks later that he runs into the man again, or rather the man runs into him.

Hanzo is walking down the street, personal groceries in hand. He lives in the lap of material luxury within the Shimada estate, but his parents long ago made their opinions on sugary drinks and greasy snacks clear. So he sneaks them in occasionally, a habit he will always blame on Genji who crawled through his window once and babbled on and on until Hanzo relented in sampling.

A body rounds a corner suddenly, at a run, and slams into him. Solid and heavy, they topple to the ground. The glass of his ramune bottles shatters, the bags of chips pop, and whatever the stranger had been holding is now smeared all over his shirt.

The assailant lifts up, crouching over Hanzo on all fours and it takes all of his self-control not to attack and lash out- he feel vulnerable and defensive training springs to the forefront of his mind. “Aw hell.” He hears, English, but he recognizes the accent and it brings a scowl to Hanzo’s face.

Hanzo heaves himself up onto his elbows and curls a lip in distaste. The American. “Why are you here?” He snarls.

Jesse scrambles to his knees, giving the archer plenty of space, and asses his own bag of lost goods- instant food from a shop. “Sorry, partner. Wasn’t lookin’ where I was going.” He stands, brushing dirt off of his pants before extending his hand.

His voice in English flows smoother than it has any right to. The thick drawl and long vowels portray a genuine inflection in his tone and while Hanzo still glares at the man, he takes his hand for leverage as he stands as well.

He looks down to his shirt and finds that he can’t dust off his pants like Jesse can, some sort of sauce is stained into his clothing that will need washing straight away lest it sticks. The downside is, he cannot return home in such a state. His father has a critical eye and in a matter of moments he will know that his eldest son has been sneaking in unsavory foods.

A blessing and a curse, the cowboy unknowingly helps him out of this situation. “I got a place nearby, washin’ out yer shirt’s the least I can do.” Manners to assist someone he has wronged. “Hell, I’ll even order us some food since it looks like I ruined yer dinner.”

That’s how he finds himself shirtless in a stranger’s hotel room, legs folded as he sits on the bed and watches the television screen flicker with scenes of some mundane sitcom.

Jesse is nothing if not a gentleman, Hanzo has learned, respecting his wishes. There have been no unwarranted advances, no pleas for a name, and the man has even taken his seat on the floor with the bed as his backrest. He gives Hanzo space and doesn’t speak besides a chuckle and the occasional ‘aw shoot’ when something entertaining happens in the show.

Hanzo wonders if perhaps he was too harsh on the man.

His proper upbringing and the wounded look he recalls tell him that he must have been.

“I apologize for my behavior the other night.” He speaks, meeting Jesse’s eyes when he looks up and over his shoulder at him.

His surprised, wide eyes crinkle shut as a grin appears. Warm. “Ain’t nothin’. You’re a loud more gentle than some folks back in the States.”

They chat lightly until Hanzo’s shirt is dry and when they stand at the door, Jesse gracing him with a lazy smile, he relents to impulse.

His hand fists in the red bandana around the cowboy’s neck and he pulls him down to press a chaste kiss on his scruff shadowed cheek. “Thank you.” He murmurs before fleeing. He doesn’t look back to see the smokey desire in dark brown eyes. They are strangers, as they must remain, and while second chances to meet happen occasionally, there is no such thing as a third chance.

At least, not on accident.

He fights with Genji two nights later, about what, he won’t remember, but he knows that they are both red in the face from shouting.

Hanzo needs space, he needs to breathe outside of the estate- where guards can’t report his every action to his father. One sign of weakness will get him a day-long lecture that he isn’t prepared to receive.

So he sneaks out and he wanders. His relationship with his brother has waxed and waned like the moon as of late, the good times are good but the bad times end with raised hackles and raw wounds lashed open by hasty words.

He finds himself at Jesse’s door before he knows it, frowning at the garish green color- like Genji’s hair, another hot topic. But his simmering anger is snuffed out by the giddy feeling he gets at seeing Jesse’s surprised face. His heart races too quick for normal, but not fast enough for adrenaline.

“Uh… hey,” He looks disheveled, as if he had been sleeping. The shadow on his face has been shaved away, and he looks so young. He looks soft and inviting instead of rough and abrassive.

Hanzo takes in a deep breath, steadying himself. “I thought perhaps we could watch more shows together.”

The raised eyebrow is skeptical, seeing straight through his lie.

“I…” Now it is he who flounders. “I could use the company and distraction.”

Honesty is the key, for the cowboy steps aside and motions for him to come inside with a sweep of an arm. He closes the door while Hanzo stands awkwardly in the room, assessing the sudden flurry of clothes and items strewn across it. He spies knives underneath a discarded pair of pants and he can see the muzzle of a revolver peeking from underneath a pillow.

The danger of being in a room with an armed man, a potential assassin, without his family knowing where he is, sends a spark up his spine. Warmth wires back down until it settles in his belly. But it also makes him suddenly hyper aware of everything.

The television is lower than it had been the previous time, and instead of granting Hanzo the entire use of the bed, Jesse flops down onto one side. He rests his head on a pillow, tucking his hand beneath it like he’s relaxing but a tense muscle in his arm says that he’s got a hold on his revolver. Dark brown eyes watch Hanzo carefully.

He doesn’t blame the cowboy for the wariness. They are strangers- _he_ is a stranger who has shown up to Jesse’s room.

Hanzo sits on the end of the bed, on the opposite side from Jesse, and crosses his legs once more, turning his focus to the television. The distraction works, the company does not.

He can feel those eyes staring at him, ready for him to strike and the cowboy flinches when he sighs and lets his shoulders sag. Pride leaving him, because it can. He can show weakness in here and nothing will get back to his father. “I fought with my brother.”

“Siblin’s tend to always rub ya the wrong way.”

He pours his heart out because the weight threatens to suffocate him. “We used to never fight, but he has been rebellious since our mother passed. Her death changed him…”

Jesse hums. “Death changes a lotta folks. I’m sure you ain’t the same either.” He pauses. “Why are ya here?”

Hanzo can’t answer. He can’t tell the cowboy that he wants to feel like he’s not being watched, that while he may have found him intolerable at their first meeting, he enjoyed their evening together - as mundane as it was.

He turns to look at Jesse over his shoulder, wounded because without the eyes of his father lording over him, he is allowed to feel what he wants. He feels a desire for the companionship, an attraction to the rugged angles of Jesse’s face. He feels like a dragon who is escaping from its cage- he hungers.

Suddenly, he’s in Jesse’s lap and they’re kissing softly, lazily. There is no fire being stoked, no burn of lust seated deep in gut. Affection is what he craves, genuine adoration that is given in the form of a hand carding through his hair.

“Tell me yer name,” Jesse demands between kisses.

Hanzo presses another, more insistent kiss against those chapped lips. Pleading, quieting. “I shouldn’t.” Having a name means Jesse is suddenly forever entangled with his family. So long as Hanzo remains anonymous, remains a ghost that he has no way of chasing after, Jesse will never be dragged into the dealings of his family.

The cowboy chuckles. “Then I’ll just have to give ya one. How does… hmmm,” He hums, smiling into kisses as he thinks. “Dragonfly sound?”

Hanzo reels back and looks appalled at the name, but chuckles into his words. “I think that is ridiculous, _Cowman_.” He plays with Jesse’s bandana, busying his fingers. “Why that, if I may ask?”

Jesse paws at his shoulder, squeezing his hand down the arm with a smile. “On account of yer dragon tattoo.”

“You compare an actual dragon to a bug?”

“Hey now, dragonflies are real pretty,” He reaches up, swipes a thumb across Hanzo’s cheek. “Just like you.”

-

For nearly two weeks they meet up at night. Sometimes nothing transpires between them, and sometimes they end up divested of clothing and breathless.

Hanzo falls hard. He falls into the feeling of freedom, the luxury of being himself inside that room. He falls for warm arms and shared cigarettes - a habit he is rather ashamed of, but again, he is free to enjoy in Jesse’s presence. He falls for easy smiles and deep laughter that are infectious and make his face hurt because he can’t remember the last time he smiled and laughed so much.

He falls for a fantasy where Cowman stays in the hotel forever and Dragonfly isn’t the heir to a criminal empire.

His father catches him on his way out, and really, he should have known better. He shouldn’t have left earlier than usual, but he’d promised to bring food this evening.

The man doesn’t say anything, his father never needed to in order to strike fear. He approaches Hanzo, stares down at him like he were nothing but a bug on the ground, easily crushed beneath his boot. His hand strikes quick, like a snake, grabbing hold of Hanzo’s collar and pulling, revealing bruises Jesse left in the passionate throes of the evening prior.

His father curls a vicious lip and snarls, shoving Hanzo away and staring him down. “Whatever you are doing, end it.” He orders. “You are not a child, do not act like a school boy with your trysts.” And he leaves.

Hanzo feels out of breath, it makes him light headed when he decides to run as fast as he can to the hotel room. Tears threaten to spill, hurt welling in his chest, and he needs to be inside that room- the place where he can be safe and show weakness.

Jesse is there, pulling Hanzo hurriedly into his arms, smothering his Dragonfly in affection and gentle lovemaking because he can see the agony in Hanzo’s face. He doesn’t ask why, doesn’t pry about why Hanzo forgot the food. He just tries to make Hanzo forget about it all.

Warm words and harsh moans keep the pain at bay, but as they are lying side by side, heartbeats coming down, he wails. He breaks and Jesse gathers him in his arms and holds him, whispers in his ear that everything is going to be okay.

What Hanzo doesn’t see are the tears that streak Jesse’s face and fall into his hair. The cowboy is leaving the next afternoon and hasn’t the heart to tell Hanzo. He certainly can’t now, not without destroying him completely.

“Tell me yer name,” He says, pleading.

Hanzo shudders, his name almost pours from his lips because he fancies the thought that the stranger - although he can’t call him a stranger anymore - with the revolver might take down his empire and leave him free. But that is another fantasy and he knows he can’t fall into that one.

“I can’t.” He replies, voice strained because now more than ever, if Jesse were to ever entangle with his family, he would be at risk. There is nothing that can hide from his father. “I can’t,” He repeats and turns his face up to stop Jesse from asking again with a kiss.

It is light outside by the time they are exhausted and tired and when Hanzo lingers at the door, ready to pull the cowboy in for a routine goodbye of bandana pulling and whispering kisses on the cheek, Jesse pulls him in first and backs him into the opposite wall in the hallway. The kiss is rough, desperate and neither complain nor relent because they both know, somewhere in their hearts they both know this is the last time they will see each other.

Cowman will travel back to wherever he came from.

Dragonfly will return to hiding underneath the skin of a dragon.

Jesse breaks first, eyes apologetic and adoring, pained as they meet with Hanzo’s. “I gotta let you go, Dragonfly.” He murmurs, ducking down for a brush of lips against the archer’s cheek. “Stay safe now,” He retreats and closes the door.

It’s the sound of Hanzo’s heart rending itself apart because when he falls, he falls hard and fast.

-

-

Hanzo doesn’t join Overwatch for a long time after his brother approaches him, but they spend time trying to mend fences or build new ones. It’s tough, for Hanzo is used to the solitary life and Genji is more calm and open minded than he once was- they are two different people from the squabbling brothers of the past.

When he does join Overwatch, a few members are away on a long mission, covert and their absence is felt for two months before their return.

Genji is overjoyed when they announce that they have arrived, one of his better friends is among those away, and he drags Hanzo to meet them. It puts him on edge, for if they are Genji’s friend, then they know of his crimes against his brother.

He expects hostility, a ‘ _Genji, are you sure?_ ’ just like many of the others have said before.

What he receives is a sucker punch to his stomach, knocking the wind out of his lungs.

The man is rugged and wild, roughened with age and experience, but Hanzo would know those eyes and that smile and that cowboy hat anywhere. Months of dreams were spent remembering those with sadness, years spent smothering down the urge to use his connections to find his Cowman.

A hand is offered to him, the other hand tipping his hat with a smile around a thick cigar. “Hey there- McCree’s the name. Jesse McCree.”

His heart hammers but he remembers himself before the silence becomes awkward, bowing in return. Jesse doesn’t seem the least bit offended that he didn’t shake his hand once more. “Hanzo.”

“Pleasure to meet ya’, Hanzo.”

-

Genji finds him later, sitting alone in the corner of the shooting range. There are tears on his face but his brother doesn’t mention it. They sit side by side in comfortable silence until Hanzo breaks it with a gasp.

There’s an arm around his shoulder, comforting, and he curls up because he’s remembering the heartache and how much he adored Jesse before they were ripped apart by the cruel directions of their lives.

“What is wrong, Anija?”

Hanzo swallows thickly. “I don’t think he recognizes me,”

“McCree?”

“Or remembers me at all.” A sharp knife in his chest.

-

Overwatch warms up to him, it takes time, but soon he is with them for most meals. He could say that he joins them for the camaraderie of it, but he knows that he joins them because it’s the cowboy who comes to round him up.

He pines, focused on Jesse in nearly all conversations, defending him more vigilantly with his arrows than any other. Genji knows, not why Hanzo hurts over the cowboy, just that he does.

“-And I will never find someone who loved armor quite like she did!” Reinhardt speaks loudly with a wistful tone, drawing Hanzo’s attention for only a moment. He leans his head in his massive hand, with a smile. “What about you, McCree? Have any ones that got away?”

The cowboy smiles, but everyone can instantly tell that it’s not an easy one. It’s sad, pained, and Reinhardt looks like he regrets bringing such a thing up. Hanzo waits with baited breath, dropping his eyes to his food and pushing it around to appear busy and uninterested.

“Yeah,” He whistles. “Met a pretty young thing in Japan during a Blackwatch OP. Didn’t take kindly to me at first, but somehow things worked out.” He chuckles and leans back. “A whirlwind romance, came in like a storm - didn’t even give me a name - and I ain’t ever felt the same ‘bout nobody since.”

“Why did it end?” Mei prods, a sucker for romance but she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know it ends in tears and heartache and that it continues with Hanzo wishing more than anything that he could run into Jesse’s arms and be free. A reality where Cowman isn’t leaving soon and Dragonfly isn’t the son of a crimelord - but also a reality where they are two different people who loved too hard and too fast and it left them both jaded and wounded.

“I had t’leave. Broke my heart sayin’ good bye, sometimes I find myself wishin’ I’d taken that Dragonfly with me. I’m sure we coulda tore up the world if I’d swept ‘im off his feet.”

A bitter taste rises in Hanzo’s mouth, because Jesse gets to keep his fantasies of ‘what if’s’ but Hanzo is forced to acknowledge that his were never truly possible. “Foolish Cowman.” He snarls, standing abruptly and leaving.

-

He’s just about to prepare to sleep when there’s a knock on his door. He ignores it, after all, it’s probably Genji, here to chastise him for his behavior.

Another, more forceful knock.

Hanzo sighs and thumbs the pad to open the door, turning away to ready his tea. “I will apologize tomorrow, Genji. You do not need to treat me like a guideless child.”

“I’ll take it now if yer willin’.”

Hanzo stills briefly as that voice washes over him. Smooth and deep english cresting with a drawl. A voice that plagues him. “Ah, McCree. To what do I owe this rather late visit?”

Heavy bootfalls with the jingle of spurs get closer, the heat from the man telling Hanzo that he is close- much closer than he’d like the cowboy to be. “Did it hurt?”

“What?” He spits, looking over his shoulder and up, eyes narrowed.

“I said,” He clears his throat and pushes his hat back. “Did it hurt?”

Hanzo stands, turning to face the man. He is taken aback by how determined he looks, like he’d come here with a life or death goal and he would see it through to the end. “Did _what_ hurt?”

“Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?” The cowboy crowds in closer, but he stands his ground.

His heart stutters, a pain blossoming in his chest because this is so familiar but he can’t get his hopes up. McCree doesn’t remember him, and perhaps this generic pick up line is just routine for anyone he wishes to bed.

Jesse puts a hand on his shoulder, prompting a glare at the offending limb, but it does little to deter him nor does Hanzo make a move to remove it himself. He slides it down, squeezing at the tattoo along his arm, fondness in those hands making Hanzo weak because he remembers and this feels _so cruel_ to him.

“Cause Dragonfly, you’re an angel if I ever saw one.”

Hanzo gasps and shoves at him. Jesse has the gall to look surprised so he does it again, and again until he has the cowboy backed up against the wall and he’s lightheartedly beating at his chest. “You knew,” He hisses, fighting back a torrent of emotions- pain, sadness, happiness. They threaten to tear him apart. “How long have you known?”

The cowboy doesn’t defend himself, placing his hand on the archer’s tattoo once again. “I’d never forget this tattoo, darlin’.” He sounds hurt, and Hanzo wants to tell him that he has no right to be, but they both were torn apart by those few weeks long ago in Hanamura. “I figure you’d come ‘round if you wanted.”

Hanzo laughs, bittersweet. “I thought the same.” He hangs his head and falls into Jesse who gathers him in his arms. “Troublesome Cowman.”

They stand there, sorting though a myriad of feelings and unspoken questions. Hanzo’s hands grip at the serape, Jesse’s head dips so that lips are pressed against the top of his head. They are older, once bitten and twice shy. But they rest with each other like not a day has passed since Hanzo ran to Jesse’s hotel room in a flurry.

“I ain’t lettin’ you go this time, Dragonfly.”

“And go where? _You_ are in _my_ room.”

Jesse hauls him up, carries him to the bed and lays them both on it. Fully clothed, he holds Hanzo, spoons around him and weaves his fingers through his hair. Hanzo can’t complain, won’t complain because there is safety in the smell of smoke and the warm arms of the cowboy.

His eyes threaten to close. “Jesse,”

“Yeah?”

“Promise me you will be here in the morning.”

The cowboy chuckles, ducking to tentatively press a kiss to the archer’s cheek. “Wouldn’t dream of bein’ anywhere else.”

Tomorrow they will have time to figure out where they want to go, figure out what is happening between them. Tomorrow will bring answers to questions that have plagued them for years and maybe, just maybe, Hanzo will be free once more.

For now, he sleeps and he dreams of Cowman and Dragonfly, together.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if there are any glaring typos, I may have missed one or two ;u;
> 
> Tumblr: ryuu-ga-waga-go-fuck-yourself  
> Twitter: @FrostyRekt  
> 


End file.
